


Great beginnings

by 1545011



Category: d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: 17th Century, Cock Vore, Dehumanization, Digestion, Food, France - Freeform, Gay, Gore, Growth, Hard vore, Humiliation, M/M, Old Age, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Vore, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Romance, Sadism, Same size vore, Sexuality Crisis, Size Difference, Size Kink, Soft Vore, Unrealistic Sex, Virginity, Vore, both idk, cock growth, cruel - Freeform, dick - Freeform, excessive cum, extreme sadism, hyper, idk - Freeform, implied cat boy, post vore, previous oral vore, romantic, size comparison, sph, virgin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:41:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22038724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1545011/pseuds/1545011
Summary: Largely a sequel to my Purge/Indulgence story. Richelieu is still full from his breakfast, and finally gets to meet Rochefort's D'Artagnan, all while fighting his appetite. Thank you for giving me a read.
Relationships: Armand Jean du Plessis de Richelieu/Comte de Rochefort, d'Artagnan/Comte de Rochefort
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6





	Great beginnings

Milady was late by a day and a half to meet with the Cardinal.   
Around 8 or 9 in the morning, Richelieu had the chance to discuss her activities for the good of France in these trying times. Mainly, these included whatever she saw fit that would be enough to slander or take the foreign Queen down a peg in her mind.   
Though, something was drawing her attention away as they spoke. 

Firstly, Richelieu’s red robes could barely cover even his knees. They were stretched almost taut around his enormously swollen stomach. It was absurd, his torso was so skinny and yet his belly so fat. He already moved like he was pregnant; There was a caution to everything he did.   
Richelieu took some time to adjust himself in his chair across from his colleague. His stomach spilled out from the arms of the chair on either side of him.   
Sometimes, she could even hear faint noises coming from the man’s belly. It was incomprehensible, but resembled speech. Though, just as the woman thought she could make out a sentence, the noises revealed themselves to be distorted gurgles and groans from digestion. Maybe. 

She grimaced in his presence. His musky odor was one thing she had never gotten used to, and his behavior was worse to her.   
Always, Richelieu was grossly biased to his male aide. For her to criticize Rochefort was blasphemy, and his smallest success still outweighed any of her achievements.   
It makes it much easier to detest someone as a whole if you already despise their personality. Milady narrowed her eyes at Richelieu across from her as she stood and turned to leave; Their business was done. 

He knew of her distaste of him, but Richelieu was not one to take that as a serious factor. A good portion of the Cardinal’s day was spent disgusting colleagues whether it be through character, or some sensory offense. 

The old man called for his aide to help him.  
“Rochefort, I need you to help me up.” He gestured for him to come over, wiggling his wrists weakly. The Cardinal was still heavy and slow from his meal now over a day ago. 

The younger man went to attend to his superior right away. He was dressed in a fashionable taupe doublet with black, square toed riding boots. The bright white ends of his chemise peeked out from the ends of his sleeves as he moved his arms to help Richelieu up. 

He helped him back to his office, where he just as easily settled into his chair with his great scarlet robes now ill-fitting and taut around his body. 

“What is next on my agenda, Rochefort?” His Eminence wrung his skinny hands as he looked up at his aide. The upward curled ends of his graying mustache gave the 57 year old’s face an apt, catlike appearance. 

“We have lunch with my D’Artagnan, but until then you have a free block of time, your Eminence.” Rochefort stood with his hands clasped, gently bowing as he spoke pointedly to his superior. 

“Hm. Your D’Artagnan.” Richelieu hummed to himself, unsure of what to think of that young man in particular.   
He was not one to hold a serious grudge. With his status, it was not much use as he could easily intimidate most anyone who crossed him.   
But, here he was stealing his Rochefort away from him.   
The Cardinal did consider Rochefort an apprentice of sorts; They shared the same sensual tastes and Richelieu wished to see him become an outstanding sadist like himself. Clearly, his time with D’Artagnan was an exercise for Rochefort. So, His Eminence was equal parts hesitant and eager to meet the younger male. 

The Cardinal let out a sigh, shifting around in his seat. The enormously swollen stomach underneath his robes sloshed audibly as he did so. His hand went to a stack of parchment which he stacked neatly on a corner of his desk yesterday afternoon.   
Richelieu had put off his work for the time being after eating his prisoner yesterday, he found that he was too swollen to sit comfortably at his desk. Now, his stomach was significantly less heavy, and the old man could squeeze himself much closer to his desk.   
He resigned himself to picking up his work where he left off yesterday, in order to bridge the gap between now and his lunch with D’Artagnan. 

Rochefort left with a bow to the Cardinal, it should be sufficient timing if he went now and took his leisure returning with the young gascon.   
At random, officers of the Cardinal’s guard greeted and met with Rochefort as he went on his way. Each one was met with a renewed grin, and they all shared the same admiration and gregariousness between one another. 

Upon exiting, he found that there was strong winds today. He could see the two red-cloaked guards at the gate standing at less than attention, with their gloved hands holding on dearly to their felted hats. Their posture was surely taking a toll from the weather. Otherwise, it was sunny and perhaps a bit hot.   
The middle aged man smiled, his dark hair tossing about his head. His hand went to fix the ends of his pointy mustache, before quickly retreating as the two at the gate noticed him.  
“Windy!” He laughed, and then waved to them.   
“Very windy, Rochefort!” They shouted to be heard over the weather, clambering to open the metal gate for their superior. 

His gait did not change as he walked the dirty path to where he knew D’Artagnan’s apartment was.  
‘Surely, that boy must be up by now.’ He thought to himself, his hand going habitually to stroke his beard. He took in the scenery around him, and found it to be as picturesque as one could find an urban center to be.With a soft, one sided smile to himself, Rochefort felt some sort of flutter from his stomach thinking about sharing a beautiful walk with that young D’Artagnan on this day. 

The Parisian stepped too quick and almost passed his turn. He swiveled on his heel, and continued unhindered onto the gascon’s lane. 

Ignoring the eyes from the windows now laying upon him, he sought out the entrance to the stairs. Rochefort’s doublet made him stand out, the slashed sleeves and glass buttons did appear incongruent with his surroundings. 

From the corner of his eye, the tanned boy saw movement from below. He was sitting by the window, his sweet head full of a grandiose daydream. 

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself in noble clothes which would have made his father proud. They would be lustrous, they would turn heads not just in Bordeaux, but in Paris and even further. This would be after his valiant career, with his rapier well worn and retired just as the men who perished on the business end of it would have been by his age. In his mind, he was 36 and established.   
He thought of this to himself, the hilt of his sword currently being fondled by his own eager hand. D’Artagnan wished to reignite his earlier goals, and regain some control of his identity. Things have been much too confusing lately. He wished Constance would be willing to forget whatever uncouth factors they had faced, too.   
But alas, D’Artagnan was only 18 (almost 19!) and had not even been accepted into military service.   
The gascon flexed, his wide shoulders forcing the silly ruffles on his cloth jerkin to flare. He continued his fantasy, doing various poses to himself as he loped about by his window.   
He grinned and grinned to himself, he couldn’t help it! His wavy brown hair framed his face, but it covered his eyebrows.   
He would demolish the country of England, and forever be associated with its demise; At least in D'Artagnan's version of the future. 

The young man paid no mind to the movement in the street below him, and Rochefort came around again to his apartment. Knocking loudly, Rochefort staved off his own uncouth thoughts concerning the younger man on the opposite side of the door. 

Truly, Rochefort could not keep his mind off of that boy. He wanted to caress him, undressing him, grinding himself and other threateningly thick objects against him… He wanted to comb his hair, suck on the younger man’s toes, he wanted to rub his shoulders, his legs, his armpits, his cute belly... There were so many less than idyllic formats that the middle aged man felt like he needed to show his adoration. There was a yearning, cottony sort of feeling brewing in the pit of Rochefort’s stomach for D’Artagnan.  
It alarmed him how persistent these thoughts were, and he had to sort out his mind more and more often to stay focused, and function day to day.

He was shaken from his reverie. But, last in his series of actions which served his playfulness, D’Artagnan drew his wobbling rapier from its sheath. His feet scuffled upon the floor, he moved them quickly. It was almost a dance while he faced the door and feigned some counter to an imaginary foe. You don’t find that kind of duel in Paris. 

Really, you don’t. The young man gained his composure, and sheathed his sword. D’Artagnan took in a breath, and swung in the door to face his visitor. 

A full head taller than him, Rochefort was standing there in his doorway. The hesitation and ambivalence that the younger man had about incorporating his relationship with the Cardinal’s aide into his life melted upon this sight; Surely that must be some kind of moral about the fleeting emotions of youth, or perhaps the tendency of humans to want company.

“Oh. Monsieur, welcome.” D’Artagnan spoke, and became bashful. He was unsure what action should come next, because the middle aged man before him didn’t appear as if he wanted to enter.

Rochefort tilted his head. “I am here because the Cardinal summons you.” His mouth opened wide as he spoke, his eyes looked bored at first. But, they turned soft as they gazed over the shorter boy with such soft brown hair. 

Nervously, he swallowed and thought to himself aloud. “Okay. We should get going, then.” D’Artagnan felt like everything was a bit too real. He had no clue if that was a positive, or not. 

The older man could sense the nervousness from D’Artagnan, and instead of relishing on the younger man’s unease, he indulged him with the details as they walked together.

The gascon found himself wanting to speed up as the two walked together, he felt a sense of urgency in knowing the true magnitude of his older boyfriend’s status. Continually, he nodded and spoke of admiration at his professional details. The boy’s hands swung nervously and exaggerated as they walked.  
Both of them started to sweat as they walked, their shadows shrank and shrank for the sun was climbing higher into the perfectly clear sky. 

Meanwhile, Rochefort was relaxed and held a free posture in tow of the young man beside him. He felt glad that he had not worn his hat for this walk, the harsh breeze would have made this an otherwise unpleasant experience. He looked upwards at the sky, which was entirely clear of clouds, courtesy of the winds. To have D’Artagnan beside him in this way was a pleasure like no other. 

A great concrete building made itself evident very early on. The black iron bars of the gate complete with guards bustling about did bring another wave of unease through D’Artagnan, though it did seem to diminish somewhat as their crawling pace allowed the young man to witness the wind comically disrupt their activities. 

Rochefort’s gascon companion proved himself to be soft spoken, and wide eyed as he exchanged pleasantries with nearly every officer which passed him. The sense that he was surely making a terrible first impression was forming in the back of his mind. 

Without a cupola, the air inside of the Prime Minister’s residence was indeed thick. Though, the harsh shadows seemed to take some edge from the heat. 

D’Artagnan would have liked to peer about his new surroundings, but instead felt himself on a tight leash so to say from Rochefort as he guided the younger man through the enormous building. 

There were certain odors now becoming aware to D’Artagnan, none of which he could identify nor discern whether he liked them or not. 

Every so often, Rochefort turned around and directed for the younger man to follow him. To D’Artagnan, it looked like the older man was beginning to take a short detour before taking him to finally meet the Cardinal.  
Perhaps this judgement was wrong, because after going through a series of arches, Rochefort was able to open a set of double doors for the gascon. 

Behind them was revealed to be a small banquet hall. Although, there were only two seats available for the time being. He was at a loss for words, honestly D’Artagnan was expecting something negative to come from his meeting with the Prime Minister.

Seeing that the younger man was confused, Rochefort filled in certain details for the sake of the gascon’s clarity.   
“His Eminence has only this room for meals, D’Artagnan.” He continued to hold out his arm for the opened door as the younger man gazed around at the elaborate decor. “It will have to do.” Rochefort sighed. 

“Oh, but Monsieur. I feel like you are seeing me as an esteemed guest.” He spoke confusedly to the older man. 

The miscommunication was beginning to click between them. “Oh, but you are.” Rochefort hummed to the naive boy beside him. “His Eminence had requested to see you, specifically.” 

“H-His Eminence did so?” Accepting the attention from males was a new set of skills for the gascon, his need for clarifications therefore persisted.  
“Yes. Mhm. You, my D’Artagnan. He grew curious about you, seeing that I was starting to dote on you.” He continued to agree and clarify to him. The older man’s pale hand brushed on the shoulder of D’Artagnan’s cloth jerkin affectionately. 

He knew now that he was supposed to be having lunch with the Cardinal, as a guest. It was a very strange realization for the young gascon to have. Tentatively, he took a seat at the long table, across from where the Cardinal’s plate was set. 

“You aren’t going to be joining us, Monsieur?” D’Artagnan’s brown eyes looked to Rochefort, who shook his head ‘no’ for a reply. “It will only be a moment.” He left to retrieve the Cardinal. 

As this happened, a cook hurriedly made his way through a door at the opposite end of the room. No greetings, no words, just began to set down platters for what should be lunch just for D’Artagnan and the Cardinal.

The course revealed itself to be a cheesy crepe, complete with a sour cream spread generously over its surface. This delighted D’Artagnan, who like any good Frenchman, appreciated cheese. 

Back through the door which the gascon entered, the much taller Rochefort was seen helping the frail Cardinal to his seat all the way across the room. Immediately, the smell from earlier intensified, and D’Artagnan began to wonder how the Prime Minister could tolerate such a strong, and musky cologne; His entire residence reeked of his signature scent.   
The vivid expanse of scarlet contrasted so greatly with the muted earth tones of Rochefort’s tight fitting outfit. The strange details of the near elderly man’s shape became clearer to D’Artagnan as Richelieu grew closer. 

He was handsomely groomed, with sleek fawn hair and a gray, curled mustache. Richelieu had large, dark eyes like a curious cat. His overall appearance was severely angular, except for the rotund belly which distorted his garb.   
As Richelieu moved towards him, it looked as if something was swinging between his legs from under the robe, but D’Artagnan could not determine what that could be, even after watching the hypnotic swinging in depth, so he left that thought alone.   
Something felt very strange about the Prime Minister. Hearing the old man’s approach, the cook who had plated their crepes stiffened nervously, and made haste to exit before the Cardinal could take his seat.

It took him some time to get comfortable in his chair, his bloated stomach being the most difficult to work around. As he shook himself around in search of a suitable position, his stomach sloshed loudly, it was an incredibly audible growl from the near elderly man. It was enough time to D’Artagnan to feel self conscious about his less than immaculate outfit as a first impression for the Prime Minister. Though, Richelieu did not seem to pay much attention to the boy in front of him for perhaps a full minute as he instead shifted and had Rochefort adjust him here, and there, and under there, too…

D’Artagnan was wearing a simple doublet of flaxen color. The toes of his brown boots were round, and the color of his own hair was by comparison much darker. The baldric he wore was ungilded, but of complex cut and excellent leather. His jerkin was wool, and it was a color you could call navy in 2019. Surely, he looked like the poorest nobleman’s youngest son in Paris. 

Despite the young man’s fears, he was determined to get on the Cardinal’s good side. If the median between them had thought for that to be implausible, then Rochefort would have been hesitant to bring the gascon around for Richelieu.

“Your Grand Eminence,” D’Artagnan began as Richelieu turned around to face the younger man. Up close, he could see obvious signs of the Cardinal’s age. Easily, he could have been old enough to be D’Artagnan’s grandfather. The musk from him was so thick, it almost made the air in the room unbreathable. “It is an inexplicable honor to meet you.” 

Richelieu did not reply, only turned to face his aide as quick as he could. In his brief moment of hesitation, the soft gurgles from the old man’s noisy stomach became very obvious to the younger male.“Rochefort, you did not tell me that your D’Artagnan had an Occitanese accent. Or, what is that? You are a Gascon, no? No wonder, you are so wonderfully dark.” 

D’Artagnan had never been complimented, especially on his skin color, in such a backhanded way. He looked to the middle aged aide’s face for some kind of guidance, having no reference on the Prime Minister’s behavior. 

“Your Grand Eminence, thank you so much. I am from Lupiac, you are correct.” The much younger man simply nodded, and accepted the strange comments from the powerful man in red before him. His voice was eager and full of a boyish charm that made the Cardinal’s aide, who crushed so hard on the much younger man, flutter with adoration.

“Young man, I love the sound of your voice. Please continue to be an excellent example of the beauty of southern France.” Richelieu’s expression did not change as he conversed with D’Artagnan, and it did seem true that he was full of strange compliments. D’Artagnan found it odd that he was receiving so much admiration from someone who’s presence had the potential to be so offensive. He was still learning to be accustomed to the affection of older men, but Richelieu was completely different.  
Meanwhile, his aide had decided to sit further away from the two, relaxing with an elbow laid on the windowsill, and looking out upon the sky.

They discussed various things as they ate, and learned more and more about one another.   
About a quarter of the way through his crepe, the gascon thought it would be appropriate to ask.   
“Your Grand Eminence, how did you become the Cardinal?” 

Richelieu paused, and then looked up from his half-eaten crepe. The gascon accompanying him could not understand how he could continue to eat even when so engorged.   
“You must say that again, I don’t understand.” Richelieu replied, his dark eyes returning to the crepe on his messy plate. A particularly loud rumble emanated from his stomach, it sounded like a human groan, almost. 

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, D’Artagnan thought how to reword his question to the Cardinal.  
“Okay. What compelled you to become the Cardinal?” D’Artagnan gripped his seat with unease.

Richelieu hummed. “Oh. Well, when I was a youth, it was much different.” He began, and the younger man tuned in eagerly for the Cardinal’s tale. In a few bites, the tan boy finished off his food.  
“I was sickly. But as I grew into a young man, maybe your age, I had the opportunity to become an officer in some military company.” The old man took another bite of his creamy crepe.

Thoughts of a higher understanding of Jesus’s message started to form in the gascon’s head.   
Perhaps, Cardinal Richelieu was a deeply peaceful and thought provoking man; Who found his calling only after witnessing some terrible bureaucracy and violence.   
“I get it. You felt like you must advocate for peace!” D’Artagnan smiled as he thought aloud. 

Sensing that His Eminence was nearly complete with his lunch, the same kitchen hand from earlier had decided to brave the musk-filled room to retrieve his superiors’ plates.

The Cardinal swallowed, and then continued his narrative. “No, that’s silly. My dick got too big to fit into the breeches decently.” He blinked slowly, and stroked his narrow Van Dyke. “And then a bishopship opened up, and my uncle bought me into office.” Richelieu continued to finish off his crepe. 

His response floored D’Artagnan’s expectations. The gascon felt like to be slack jawed was appropriate for the circumstances, but he wouldn’t dare such a reaction in front of the Prime Minister.   
What puzzled him more, was the lack of surprise from the cook who started to collect their plates and napkins from the table, before rushing back through the same door. His reaction was to imply that the Cardinal’s words were common knowledge.

D’Artagnan was so shocked that he had not noticed that Rochefort had rejoined him from his leisure by the window. Now, he was helping the near elderly Richelieu up from his uncomfortable seat.   
“Was that a good crepe, your Eminence?” He cooed to the much older man, grasping him by the wrists gingerly. 

“Undoubtedly. But, I must say that I like your D’Artagnan. Rochefort, I would like to conduct the second half of our meeting in my office.” He grunted through tight lips as the old man exerted himself to stand. Rochefort nodded in agreement.

The gascon stood to follow them, trusting their lead. His eyes started to focus on something in the distance, before being abruptly returned to reality. 

Richelieu’s bony hand had gripped the much younger man’s ass. His grip was deceptively strong, and did not lessen. A spank to his rear would have been more pleasant.   
His hips shot forward as he was startled, and his youthful face started to blush. D’Artagnan let out a cry from the old man’s touch.

On his other cheek, he felt Rochefort’s large hand spread itself over his ass. The younger man let out a whimper, feeling his dick throb intensely to life in his breeches.

D’Artagnan was surely a terrible, naive boy. It was starting to come to fruition in his mind what the motive of the Prime Minister’s meeting was, and the young gascon was at the mercy of these two perverted, older men.

“Are you not in agreement, Monsieur D’Artagnan?” Rochefort tilted his head, and made eye contact with the shorter, tanned boy between him and Richelieu. “It’s such an honor to be the Cardinal’s toy, I should know. I did put in a good word for you, here.” The older man’s voice grew heavy with lust for the gascon under his touch.

The trio continued through the halls a short while, and entered the Cardinal’s office. Richelieu had ended up leaving a steady trail of shining, thick precum behind him as a result of his arousal.

What Rochefort spoke to him lingered in his thoughts, and the much younger man began to think that it was incredibly sexy. The dark haired man was old enough to be D’Artagnan’s father, and often treated him like a spoiled little boy while he fucked his tight little ass mercilessly like the severe sadist Rochefort was.   
But, in revealing that the Cardinal’s aide did indeed serve as a sex toy for the older man, it was some perverse fantasy to behold. At some times, Rochefort was in HIS position, being fucked and used by a man old enough to be HIS father, his hair pulled and insides rearranged around whatever the Prime Minister was packing under his lustrous robes. The image of Rochefort hollowing his cheeks out as he sucked hard on the older man’s cock was quickly becoming burned into his mind’s eye.

Upon arriving inside, Richelieu’s huge, sloshing stomach let out a seemingly unending series of loud, wet gurgles.

“Rochefort, please help me handle him.” Cardinal Richelieu was beyond aroused, his usually stagnant and aged face was alive with blush. The terrible musk of the Prime Minister left the air chokingly pungent.

“Yes, your Eminence.” He obeyed, and went to grab the lithe boy by his shoulders.  
Richelieu groaned. “No, no. Rochefort, first move my papers. They are important.”   
“With pleasure, your Eminence.” The middle aged man’s voice was strained, and laden from the arousal. He turned away from D’Artagnan, and instead went to move aside the Cardinal’s untidy stack of paperwork. The pale man demonstrated some haste, and frustration to get back to the young man.

D’Artagnan accepted this, he could no longer deny his erection which was meekly straining at the front of his breeches. Indeed, he was leaking pitifully, and made a visible wet spot on the fabric. He felt electricity race up and down his spine, thinking to himself that was going to be a good slave to the dicks of the two older men who now gripped him at both ends. 

They laid D’Artagnan on his back over the Cardinal’s desk. Richelieu held the young man by his wrists, twisting them behind his head with no regard for his comfort. While Rochefort settled on restraining the gascon by his ankles on the opposite side of the hardwood desk. 

He peered over to the dark haired middle aged man at his feet. Over his own modest length which he could feel twitching in his breeches, he could see Rochefort’s own completely dwarfing his.  
It was so large that it had begun to unfasten the taller man’s own breeches. Stretching it like an absurd hammock, the bulge wobbled as his cock twitched. Thicker than his own leg at the knee, D’Artagnan could see it’s angry veins throbbing eagerly to inseminate him.

Below it, his heavy testes were swelling visibly. D’Artagnan could hear the thick seed churning about in them, though the grotesquely thick gurgling might have been indistinguishable from Rochefort’s loins, or the Prime Minister’s belly, which was currently pressed against his head.  
Finally, his sack became too heavy and spilled out from his breeches. With a heavy smack, the huge and soft orbs fell over D’Artagnan’s legs.   
Each one was surely enough to dwarf a five gallon jug, and still they engorged, churning with seed. 

The middle aged man’s dick followed, looming over the lower half of d’Artagnan threateningly. It would surely penetrate his ribcage if the older man was to begin to fuck him. 

What D’Artagnan wasn’t expecting was that Richelieu’s cock could dwarf Rochefort’s at its current size. He let his incredibly sexy old man cock fall over the young man’s body. Surely, he could almost make him disappear under his penis if he wanted to.  
It must have weighed over 70 pounds, and it immediately made itself known to D’Artagnan that it was the source of the Cardinal’s signature musk.   
Thicker than the gascon’s own body and nearly as long as he was tall, it knocked the wind from the much younger man’s lungs in more ways than one. 

D’Artagnan coughed and sputtered. He panted, desperately trying to regain his breath under the staggering weight of the Cardinal’s penis. The sweat from his loins spread itself over the young man’s face, plastering his hair with that sensual moisture. 

He could not move his head to see what must be Richelieu’s proportional sack, but D’Artagnan could imagine that it touched the floor.

He felt humiliated, with his own dick hopelessly small in comparison. He could feel even just the minute spasms and twitches from the much older man’s dick lying upon his body caressing his own and it felt like heaven.

D’Artagnan gasped, he felt like he was losing himself. On his own body, he could feel Rochefort unleash his own manhood onto the young man. The Prime Minister’s penis was blocking his vision, but the incredible heat and sensation was making it easy for the 18 year old to discern that Rochefort’s dick was growing to match the Cardinal’s. 

Soon, he felt those two leaking cocks meet in the middle on them, their heads rubbing against the side of each other’s shafts as if they were kissing, drooling their own equally foul and unique formulas of precum over the young man’s clothes. The smell might never leave them.  
He took in a shaking breath. He wanted to marry Constance someday, and this was his best wool jerkin. The thought of standing next to her on their holy day, still smelling of these older men’s sperm was too much for D’Artagnan to bear, but his dick throbbed mercilessly to that thought.

Another thought was starting to worm itself into the mind of D’Artagnan. The groaning and sloshing of Richelieu’s heavy belly had never ceased. It’s droning and persistence was drawing in D’Artagnan’s focus somehow, even as his senses were lost to the incredible frotting of the two enormously endowed men over him. 

It sounded like a voice. For the third time today, the prisoner inside of Richelieu’s stomach was attempting to save himself despite that route being clearly overdue.

“Hear me, hear me. Can you hear me? Please, please..” It pleaded hopelessly, it was hoarse. The voice was punctuated with pain, and it was muffled through the skin of the old man’s body. What was more of a miracle was that the young man could hear the prisoner over the audible throbbing of the near elderly man’s shaft. 

“I can hear you.” D’Artagnan whimpered, realizing he was muffled through the incredible shaft laid on top of him, he tried again. “I can hear you.” 

“Lord have mercy upon me. I have never found the reason for this fate, I don’t understand, I don’t understand. Another man has eaten me as you would a m-meal…” The man inside of Richelieu was clearly weak. “This is no warning, there is no recovery, n-no guidance from thiss… I am going to die this way. I have been inside of him for two days.”

D’Artagnan couldn’t keep his dark brown eyes open, and his hips tossed themselves to a rhythm searching for more stimulation for his lonely dick. He could feel the two older men using his extremities as handles to frot upon him more like if his body was a toy. 

“What is that like?” D’Artagnan’s voice was desperate, feeling a horrible and morbid curiosity at the situation of the other man. 

“Oh, it is hot and cramped. The walls move, they keep trying to compress me, to crush me…” Clearly, this man had a lot of time to himself inside of the Cardinal’s stomach. “The smell is unbearable, the liquid stings everything it touches, and I cannot escape from it. I couldn’t move before, but this man’s stomach keeps squirming against me as if I am food. It took my eyes, it scraped them right off, scraped my skin off. I have no hair, that was the first to go. My teeth are soft, disintegrated.” The voice cried. “I used to stand 5’10”, now because of this man digesting me, I can fit under his robe as just a swollen stomach. I am from Normandy, I am a mason by trade, a-and I am blind, now. My skin is all open sores, and torn muscles like what’s at the bottom of a crock pot. Next, I am sure that my bones will be soft like the way those in Norway eat whitefish at Christmastime.” 

It was an awful image, he used to be a person. Someone, somewhere used to think his face was familiar, and thought of his arms around them at night. Now, he is two days into perishing at the bottom of an old man’s stomach. 

“He keeps eating. This was no matter of sustenance. I feel it splash over me, and dissolve like I will if I stay here... I am a man. A-And he- He is no man of God. He is just an idol of fertility. He is cruel, nothing but cruel…” He spat with an immolating hatred for his captor before his voice turned soft.   
He whimpered, surely what was left of his face grimacing in pain. “There a-are other ways, I have seen and heard of others going in through another end, ending up in his loins through his ugly monster swallowing them down. Absurd, like to feed your cock a meal. What planet is this? Maybe that will be you, next. I think his sperms will eat you alive like trillions of little fishes trying all their damndest to impregnate you no matter the cost.” 

Their conversation was starting to stir to life some kind of fear in D’Artagnan’s chest. The reality of it all was coming alive, and making his head spin. Talking to him, he did see the man as an individual, with a soul, and not like a simple snack the way it was clear Richelieu did so. Pinned under the Cardinal’s dick, he tried hard to shake his head. 

“Will you help me?” The voice pleaded, but D’Artagnan regretted even responding to him. He squirmed and rubbed his thighs against one another fearfully, against the restraint of Rochefort.

“Oh! Look at that!” Richelieu laughed, he was drooling with lust. “You picked such an obedient young man, Rochefort.” His skinny chest heaved with every heavy, aroused breath. “He knows to service us.”

“I had to break him, your Eminence.” Rochefort replied, his precum streaming steadily and forcefully out of his own dick, and soaking D’Artagnan in the process. “Before, he was just a southern brat.” The tall male’s eyes rolled back in his head as he breathed the phrase, feeling the lovely boy he fantasized so much about each day pinned under his dick.

Richelieu hummed, his dick spasming before spurting out a particularly thick round of messy precum over the front of his aide’s clothes. His dick could easily reach him on the other side of the heavy, wooden desk without needing to extend. As it did so, his shaft had tensed up, and nearly every vein in the enormous member with it’s turgid heat was visible.

“You should be ready now to receive your blessing, Rochefort. You cannot be a virgin forever.” Richelieu gave the middle aged man’s penis a friendly rub almost like the way you would pat a faithful dog on the head.

D’Artagnan was lost, he had no idea what to believe at this point. Under those heavy shafts, easily what could be over 200 pounds of the older men’s dicks over him, he could not see. The young man easily forgot about the conversation he had with the mason who Richelieu was currently digesting.  
Instead, D’Artagnan was content with whatever plan the two older men were now brewing up for him. They moved and manipulated his limbs, tilted him as they saw fit. 

Finally, they made sense of their process and Richelieu pointed the gascon’s boots towards the slit of Rochefort’s twitching penis, which had grown to be longer than he was tall by this time. Girth-wise, he could not encircle it with his own arms.   
The dark haired man tried to steady it, but it still bobbed around like a stiff spring, and flung fat drops of musky precum around the Cardinal’s office. 

Therefore, it was easy to slip him inside of the older man’s cock. It eagerly accepted its meal, and started to throb visibly in a particularly obscene manner. It started to suck the younger man in, undulating over him as it swallowed his body up. 

D’Artagnan gasped and cried, his own dick succumbing orgasm. This was beyond intimacy, he could feel Rochefort’s foreskin spreading hungrily over his knees as he slid deeper into the older man’s cock. 

“Tell me, D’Artagnan. Is this what you want?” Rochefort flexed his dick forward momentarily, into a different position. If he truly wanted, with one twitch he could send the young man sliding down his 15 foot shaft with virtually no effort. 

The Prime Minister hissed in a frustrated arousal. His own dick throbbed angrily, upset at the pause from his aide. His small hands massaged an enormous vein on the middle aged man’s cock teasingly.   
The vein itself was wider than D’Artagnan’s dick was long. Richelieu’s own exceeded Rochefort’s current size, there was a reason he was just an apprentice to the Cardinal’s tastes, however.  
“You are so sweet on this boy…” He moaned, seeing the other man’s penis hungry for it’s boy meal in waiting. 

“Yes, Rochefort! Yes.” D’Artagnan whined, his chest felt full of emotions. He hadn’t thought of what Constance would think in a while, now. 

“Would you like nothing more, my D’Artagnan?” Rochefort continued his clarification.

“Yes! Yes! Rochefort…” The gascon tore at his clothes, completely soaked and clinging to his masculine, youthful frame as he struggled for the dick of the much older man. ‘I am his, I am his, I am his, I am his…” His mind was turning over and over, he didn’t have a clue how he could have ever felt ashamed, or conflicted about belonging to Rochefort before this. 

The prisoner in Richelieu’s stomach could hear their exchange clear as day. Though, this was perhaps his last coherent thought, completely disgusted. Before the acquaintance he made could replicate his own fate to the Cardinal’s aide’s loins, he expired in the pit of Cardinal Richelieu’s stomach. Soul is gone, his body is lifeless. I don’t know where it went. It is 377 years after these events, and perhaps just me and the readers know what happened to the mason from Normandy; Better known as Cardinal Richelieu’s June 26th breakfast, or his July 9th stool.

Quickly, he went down Rochefort’s musky shaft. The three of them tried to savor it, and Richelieu easily found great pleasure in feeling the young man become just a lump on the underside of his Rochefort’s penis as it swallowed him down into his bloated testes. 

The middle aged man who just swallowed his dear D’Artagnan out of lust for him, and him alone was no longer a virgin in Cardinal Richelieu’s eyes. His chest heaved, and he asked through panting breaths; “How long would you estimate he is going to be in there?” And then he moaned, thinking that his testes must feel like enormous, moist caves with gently pulsing walls to the young man now inside of him.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you thought. Thank you so much for reading this. I would like any feedback that you may have, or any suggestions for what's to come. 
> 
> Thank you, again.


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